


Trying to Find a Song

by brilliant_or_insane



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: AU - North and South (Elizabeth Gaskell), Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Meetings, I guess???, M/M, Misunderstandings, No Period-Typical Homophobia, No Period-Typical Sexism, and very one-sided enmity, but only sort of, there are reasons, to both of their continual distress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25930963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliant_or_insane/pseuds/brilliant_or_insane
Summary: The city carried too many emotions. There was too much noise, too much happening, too much pain. In alternate circumstances Benji Dunn might have gotten used to it—might have found it interesting, even exciting. However, due to his and his mother’s relative poverty and being frequently in the company of a man he’d almost definitely have fallen in love with if he didn’t happen to be an industrialist mogul—well. It was all a bit much.
Relationships: Benji Dunn/Ethan Hunt
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10
Collections: Benthan Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a North and South AU as told by someone who read the book once 5 or 6 years ago. I did do research on the factory conditions of the time, however, which I offer as my excuse for why any social commentary in this fic tends less towards nuance than Anger.
> 
> I also owe a warning to any fans of North and South who might stumble across it: this story is pretty overtly critical of the Mr. Thornton in the book. 
> 
> The title is from _Fireflies and Songs_ by Sara Groves:
> 
> _We're looking for the music_  
>  _In the music box_  
>  _Tearing it to pieces_  
>  _Trying to find a song_  
> 

The city carried too many emotions. There was too much noise, too much happening, too much pain. In alternate circumstances Benji Dunn might have gotten used to it—might have found it interesting, even exciting. However, due to his and his mother’s relative poverty and being frequently in the company of a man he’d almost definitely have fallen in love with if he didn’t happen to be an industrialist mogul—well. It was all a bit much.

It wasn’t that the countryside had been a paradise. It had its share of the sick and weary and cruel and impoverished, and when Benji began to doubt the faith his mother preached from the pulpit he discovered the drawbacks of living in a small town which tended towards a certain uniformity of belief. 

But he knew that if ever misfortune befell him he could never sink into obscurity in a town where he was known and loved by the majority of the inhabitants, and the air was clean and clear, and when he lent his aid to those in trouble he felt the ripple of each good deed echo throughout the community. 

Now, here in Milton, none but his mother would so much as notice if he disappeared from the face of the planet, unless he did so in a sensational enough manner to merit a column in the newspaper and furnish the populous with a passing moment of entertainment. Here when he tried to gather his meager resources to aid the suffering, all attempts seemed immediately swallowed and erased in a city too vast and too busy to take note of the relative happiness of any one individual. Here, there was Mr. John Thornton.

It was too much.

* * *

The day Benji learned they were leaving the town where he grew up, his mother walked into the living room where he was sat mending the neighbor child’s coat, stopped dead in the doorway, then strode forward without a word and sat next to him.

Benji waited tensely, expecting her to speak, but after a minute of silence he turned toward her to find tear-stains on on her cheeks.

He had scarcely ever seen her cry, and although he tried to remain steady his hand shook a little as he moved to place it over hers. 

“Mother? What’s wrong?” he asked tightly. 

She inhaled deeply, and although her breath trembled her voice was strong. 

“I hope you can understand. I no longer believe in the faith I preach from the pulpit.”

“Oh thank goodness!” Benji exclaimed.

“I’m sorry?”

“Mother, if you wanted to shock me with your blasphemy you’re a good deal too late—I’ve been a thorough heretic myself for the past six months.”

A sob broke her composure and she sagged against the couch. “I’m afraid it’s terribly selfish of me, but I _am_ relieved. I can stand tall with this whole town against me knowing I have acted in accordance to my conscience, but if you—it would have been too hard.”

“Ah,” Benji answered, not having thought that far beyond the first rush of relief. “So you’ll be announcing this to the congregation, then?”

“I can’t lie to them, Benji.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“I’ve already felt like a lier this past year while I questioned during every waking hour then stood in the pulpit and pretended to speak with authority …” she trailed off, then turned towards her son. “Benji dear, if I knew how to divert all their fear and anger to myself—if there was any way I could avoid catching you in the consequences of my crisis of faith—”

“It’s alright, Mother. I’ve hated keeping this secret. Now that I know you’ll stand by me—I’d much rather have it out in the open.”

“My brave boy,” she smiled, squeezing his hand gratefully, “but we won’t be here for them to judge for long.

Benji nodded tightly. “I don’t suppose this is the best place to search for new employment.”

“No. Not with what they’re likely to think of us now.”

* * *

And so they packed their things, made their confessions, and moved to the city. And it was all a blur—a mass of noise and sound and smell and a dingy apartment and blank faces—until Mr. Thornton walked into their apartment at 1:00 pm on a Sunday and, for one blessed moment, everything was still.

Benji couldn’t say quite what it was about the man that struck him so immediately. He was attractive, sure, with his deep green eyes and slightly mussed jet-black hair. But Benji suspected it had more to do with the way he looked first Mrs. Dunn and then himself directly in the eye, with a fullness of attention and an absence of one-hundred thoughts racing elsewhere. It reminded him of home.

Having exchanged greetings, they all took a seat, and Mr. Thornton turned to Mrs. Dunn. “Forgive me if this is too forward,” he said gravely,” but I wished to tell you how deeply I respect you for keeping your integrity, even at the loss of everything else.”

Mrs. Dunn bowed her head in acknowledgment of the praise but did not raise it at once, and Benji suspected she was hiding tears. 

Those few earnestly delivered words were the kindest they had received since making their confession to the congregation. 

“I cannot tell you how grateful we are for your kindness, Mr. Thornton,” Mrs. Dunn said after a short pause, raising her head and speaking steadily. “Although I didn’t realize my cousin had told you quite so much about us.”

“I don’t say it merely to be kind,” Mr. Thornton said, leaning forward in his earnestness, “I mean it sincerely.”

“I can see that,” Mrs. Dunn answered. “But I have lost far less than everything.” She looked over at Benji and smiled.

Mr. Thornton likewise turned towards Benji, and Benji’s breath caught again at the direct intensity of his gaze, and—was he imagining it?—a spark of interest in his eye?

For a moment Mr. Thornton parted his lips as if to ask a question, but reconsidered and turned his gaze awkwardly to the floor.

To his distress, Benji found himself answering the unasked question—or at any rate _an_ unasked question, he doesn’t even know for certain what Mr. Thornton was going to ask— “My Mother is the best there is, and I could never have turned against her for being brave and honest, but in any case I’ve my own reservations about the faith I’d grown up in, came across them about the same time as Mother, though I didn’t know it at the time. And she’s the only one who was brave enough announce it, I was more-or-less planning to take my dark secret to the grave.” 

Benji chuckled tightly, all too aware that he was rambling. But having those eyes fixed him as if his recital was the most fascinating to be heard wasn’t helping his tendency to overshare when nervous. “You see, it was a hundred things really, but in a small town like where we—Mother and I—came from, you don’t only see the sin, you see the whole path the leads to it, all the circumstances and the fear and the hurt. And it just started to seem too simplistic, the whole sin and damnation business, as if the temptation to sin materializes out of thin air as an equal challenge to all. Which isn’t to say—”

Here Mrs. Dunn broke in, releasing Benji at last from the flow of words, though his face burned with shame at how much he had already poured out. “Benji knew the suffering in our village better than most,” she said gently.

Mr. Thornton’s brow creased in inexplicable concern. “Is that so?” turning again to Benji, “what was your employment in the village?”

Benji’s face grew yet warmer, and he could only hope it couldn’t be perceived in the dim light of their apartment. “I—well you know,” he floundered, “I did odd jobs here and there. What with Mother being the pastor we were provided for without additional income, so I merely—”

“Cared for the people,” Mrs. Dunn cut in softly, and Mr. Thornton continued to look at him, face softening, yet oddly sad. 

Mrs. Dunn—being superior to all mothers on earth except in her inability to not brag about her child _ad infinitum_ —expanded on this topic for some time, detailing the meals Benji had cooked for harried mothers, the sick he had cared for, the lonely had sat with. All greatly exaggerated of course, as Benji would assure Mr. Thornton quite as soon as his mother stopped shushing him whenever he opened his mouth. 

At least her boasting had drawn Mr. Thornton’s gaze away from Benji—only the moment it was gone, Benji rather wished for it back.

It seemed mere moments later that Mr. Thornton was standing—how long _had_ he been there? And where on earth had Benji’s sense of time got to?—making his excuses, and shaking Mrs. Dunn’s hand in farewell.

He held out his hand towards Benji next, and Benji grasped it tentatively, spouting rote pleasantries about appreciating the visit, when he was struck with a realization.

“But, Mr. Thornton, you must forgive our rudeness! We’ve talked only of ourselves the whole of this visit; I can hardly recall that we asked you a single question.”

“No, no,” Mr. Thornton shook his head earnestly, “this visit was about welcoming Mrs. Dunn and yourself, and I’m quite good at directing a conversation when I’m so inclined.”

Benji chuckled in surprise at the solemnly delivered boast, then, gasping around has own boldness, answered, “Very well, but you will visit again? At least, you should know you would be most welcome.”

Mr. Thornton turned towards Mrs. Dunn, observed her willing nod of assent, then turned back toward Benji and said, “Most gladly.”

Adding _invariably polite_ to Mr. Thornton’s already alarmingly long list of appealing qualities, Benji smiled widely in return and said, “Very good! We shan’t let you escape without spilling a dark secret or two next time.”

At this Mr. Thornton’s eyes darted away from his own with a look that was … guilty? No, that wasn’t quite it, but it was certainly avoidant in a manner quite alien to his behavior thus far, and Benji feared that he had overstepped.

But as Mr. Thornton stepped over the threshold he glanced back and nodded at the both of them, and his eyes held such warmth that Benji forgot the incident at once.

Of course, this shift in mental state was somewhat aided by his mother turning to him with raised eyebrows and an impish smile, saying, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I rather get the impression that you think well of our guest.”

Benji glared at her.

* * *

Mr. Thornton’s second visit occurred a mere week later, but his step as he entered seemed to falter, and Benji felt a start of anxiety that he might have returned only out of a sense of obligation.

They exchanged pleasantries and settled into conversation. Benji meant to begin by returning the polite inquires their guest had plied them with upon his first visit, but Mr. Thornton at once employed his boasted-of talent at directing conversation, and before they knew what they were about Benji and Mrs. Dunn were doing all the talking again.

Frowning, Benji leaned forward and began to carefully observe Mr. Thornton’s methods. Timing was the main thing, he decided. His mother, being quite the skilled conversationalist herself, had once remarked that everyone has their own internal metronome that marks how long of a pause is required after a person has finished speaking before one may respond without apparent rudeness. One way to help someone who seems on edge settle into a conversation, she said, was to observe their conversational rhythm and adjust yours to it. The other almost certainly wouldn’t notice it, but they would likely feel more in control and comfortable.

Mr. Thornton clearly had some awareness of this, conscious or otherwise, and must have learned his and his mother’s rhythms during the first visit. Combining this with an uncanny ability to sense when they were on the verge of asking questions, Mr. Thornton consistently managed to speak and keep the conversation on them just before they could voice a question—always speaking just half a beat before they would have, so that he neither spoke over them nor noticeably disrupted the pace of the conversation.

Of course, one would notice if one’s questions were always cut off, so periodically Mr. Thornton would allow one of them to get out a question, make a show of considering it carefully, then answer with such seeming thoughtfulness that one scarcely noticed he had communicated no real information. Add to this that he would distract from his silence on personal issues by talking quite knowledgeably and extensively about anything not remotely revealing about himself, and well—Benji had to admit that, even though there was a curious urgency to his stratagems today that made them more transparent than they had been upon his first visit, Mr. Thornton really was very good at this.

Still, two could play this game.

On that particular day Benji became so engrossed in observing Mr. Thornton’s methodology that the visit was over before he could grasp any firm impression of time having passed. But upon the next visit—1:00 pm, a week to the day again, making Benji suspect with a pleased flutter that this just might become a pattern—he was prepared. He waited just long enough to again catch the rhythm of the conversation, then jumped in:

“How long have you lived in Milton-Northern?” he asked. His unpracticed timing was no rival to Mr. Thornton’s; in his eagerness to push out the question he had all but talked over their guest. It earned him a raised eyebrow from Mr. Thornton, but he did not appear offended.

“Long enough to have forgotten the precise number. How long did you live in the village before coming here?”

“I was born there and hardly ever left before coming here.” Then, hurrying on with scarcely enough of a pause to indicate the conclusion of a sentence, “Have you only ever lived in cities?”

Mr. Thornton’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward with a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “My clearest memories are of times when I lived in them. Had you ever visited a city before moving here?”

“Yes, Mother and I used to visit Milton sometimes when we needed to be someplace where we didn’t know every inhabitant’s pain intimately.” Abruptly Benji recalled his first time in Milton, how at first everything had seemed a blur of noise and cacophonous sound, but as one object and the next came into focus, and there was so much more, always more to see and discover and understand, he’d turned to his mother with a grin and announced, _I’m going to live here someday_.

It was a pity the prediction had outlived the desire.

The memory took only an instant to flash through his mind, but too many instants of processing followed, and before he gathered himself Mr. Thornton cut in with just the hint of a smirk: “How old were you when you first visited?”

“10. What’s your earliest memory?” It was an abrupt answer and an awkward segue, but at least he was back in.

“Sneaking outside to milk the cow and save my Dad the work, and nearly getting my face kicked in for the effort. What’s yours?”

Benji suspected this abrupt personal detail was inserted to throw him off the rhythm, and it nearly worked, but he allowed himself to ramble a slightly longer answer to this question and regained his balance by the time he had to hit his next beat.

“Playing a sheep in the church Christmas pageant. Thought I’d be terrified but my face was covered, so that was fine; I learned to be on stage with my own face eventually, but a mask does wonders for nerves. So it sounds like you lived in the country as a boy; do you prefer the country or the city?”

“Both have their merits. The poets insist the country is better for the soul, but I know people who would defend the city for its variety and educational resources. Which do you prefer?”

Benji tried not to grin—they’d covered that question extensively last week, and he felt the repetition as such a point in his favor that he couldn’t quite help rubbing it in. “My heart is in the country, as we’ve discussed before. And I asked about _your_ preference, not that of poets and friends.”

Mr. Thornton had the good grace to acknowledge the hit. “Fair point. If I had to do without one entirely I’d keep the country, but I’ve found my happiness has less to do with where I am than what I’m doing, with what my work …”

He trailed off abruptly, and Benji ought to have observed this as a warning sign, but he was too caught up and thought only of pressing his advantage:

“And what is your work in the city?”

Mr. Thornton’s face went blank. Benji had the sudden anxious feeling that shyness my not have been the primary cause of his guest’s reticence. So he didn’t push the question—but neither could he bring himself to retract it.

Mr. Thornton leaned back, sitting ramrod straight, averted his eyes, and answered at last in little above a murmur: “I work at a cotton mill.”

Benji breathes out in a mixture of sympathy and relief. “That must be difficult Mr. Thornton. You have our sympathy—and all our respect.” Although he didn’t want to press, Benji wished Mr. Thornton would tell the whole story of how so well-dressed a man had reached the point of needing to work in a factory. And he wished Mr. Thornton would look up so he could see in Benji’s eyes that his profession in no way lowered him in the eyes of this house—well. Apartment.

But still Mr. Thornton didn't look at him, didn’t answer, didn’t attempt to redirect the conversation. Uncertain what to make of this, Benji glanced towards his mother and found her looking at Mr. Thornton with a strange, hesitant sort of suspicion. 

At last she said, “I quite agree with my son that there is no shame in working for a factory to support oneself and one’s family, although all such workers have my sympathy for the hardships they suffer. However—if you’ll pardon my asking—do you, strictly speaking, work _in_ the factory?”

“No,” Mr. Thornton answered. Another long pause followed, and then: “I own it.”

It was Benji’s turn now to pull back, to sit ramrod straight, to let his face grow impassive. Then he reconsidered—if Mr. Thornton was that sort of man, why should he hide his contempt?

When Mr. Thornton glanced at him a moment later, it was not sympathy or respect that he attempted to convey.

As Mr. Thornton observed Benji’s glare, the strangest expression entered his eyes. He looked, of all things, desperately sad, and yet there was a curious quirk of his lips which, were it not so irrational, Benji might have read as approval.

Then Mr. Thornton nodded once, briefly, and it seemed like nothing so much as a farewell.

* * *

Mr. Thornton left soon after—small wonder, with Benji’s adamant silence and the stilted nature of his conversation with Mrs. Dunn as they danced around the topic of Mr. Thornton’s work. Still, whereas during the man’s previous visits time had become disturbingly unmoored, speeding past like the most advanced of steam locomotives, today the five minutes that passed before he left felt like a small eternity. 

At last Mr. Thornton made his excuses, rose from his seat, shook Mrs. Dunn’s hand and uttered a polite goodbye. He likewise spoke a firm, “Goodbye, Mr. Dunn,” but even then he did not look in Benji’s direction, nor did he extend his hand or wait for a response.

Hardly a surprise, Benji thought, remaining stiffly in his chair while his mother showed their guest to the door. After all, given his line of work the man clearly had a good head on his shoulders for securing his own comfort at the expense of others. He’d probably surmised that if he tried to give a proper goodbye he’d be met with a stone wall and had wanted to save himself the embarrassment.

The door closed, and Benji waited three seconds before deciding he actually didn’t care if Mr. Thornton heard him. “ _Damn_ him!” he exclaimed loudly, rising and stomping a foot like a petulant child.

Mrs. Dunn looked a little agitated and glanced at the door, but she only said, “I confess I did not expect that either.”

“How did we not—we spent several hours with him, how the devil did he—and he’s your cousin’s something-or-other! Why didn’t _they_ tell you? They clearly told _him_ everything about _us_.”

Benji was pacing now; as if to offset his dramatics Mrs. Dunn resumed a seated position. 

“I suspect my cousin told Mr. Thornton about us so that, if he responded poorly, they would know not to introduce us at all. And I believe they didn’t tell us about Mr. Thornton because they thought I would have refused to see him.”

“Well, yes! We would hardly choose a _factory owner_ for our one friend, would we! It’s just …”

“We would have chosen him.”

“Yes. Minus the mill owner part, yes. Except—that’s just what I can’t make out, Mother. Owning a factory isn’t an incidental achievement. It requires a person willing to make their fortune from exploiting the desperate. But he—I know we’ve hardly known him, but he seems attentive, and empathetic, and understanding, and it—it doesn’t add up!”

“I know. As baffling as it may be, there are people who seem to exhibit every good quality among those they consider equals, only to treat people they have deemed beneath them like chattel.”

“But _we’re_ beneath him! Not in any real sense of course, but socially speaking we are, and we’re poor, and didn’t go to his fancy schools, and that’s all separating him from your average factory worker.”

Mrs. Dunn shrugged helplessly. “Perhaps his nostalgia for the country … ?”

Benji collapsed back into his chair and sagged against it, letting his face fall into his hands.

Mrs. Dunn made her way over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, dear. I know you … liked him. At least we found out before you had time to invest more deeply.

Benji shook his head. “It’s not that. I mean it is, but it’s not the main thing. Without this I’d have puttered along with my unrequited feelings for a few—”

“Years?” Mrs. Dunn suggested.

Benji chuckled faintly. “I wish I could object, but my history is against me. The point is, I would have gotten over it eventually, and that would have been it. But for a minute there, I really thought—I really thought we’d found a friend. Someone we could be honest with—really truly honest—without him running away. He almost seemed to make Milton survivable—maybe even worthwhile.”

Mrs. Dunn ran her hand absently through her son’s hair, then said hesitantly, “Most of what we know about these factories is hearsay. We have no reason to doubt what we’ve heard, but perhaps…”

Benji sat ramrod straight, then twisted around and smiled widely and his mother. “Mother, you’re a genius. Even presuming factories are hellholes, whose to say his isn’t different? That he hasn’t made his own humane ecosystem? Good god, it would make infinitely more sense than him being a heartless monster—”

By then Benji was at the door, grabbing his coat and hat, and Mrs. Dunn was anxiously qualifying, “I said there was a _chance_ , dear—”

“Yes, yes, Mother, I’m setting myself up for more disappointment, etc. But—it’s wild I know, and against the facts—I trust him. A moment ago I thought I’d just gotten it wrong, but with a thread of hope I can’t seem to help it. I trust him.”

“But how will you find him?”

“I’m not looking for him. I’m going to find his factory and talk to the workers, see if they can’t convince me to find room in my heart for a lone mill owner.” Then, with a grin and a flourish, Benji left the room.

*

Four hours later, the door to the apartment burst open and Benji announced, “I HATE factory owners!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite all appearance to the contrary, I haven't abandoned this story. At this point I have a completed draft of all remaining chapters, and going forward I intend to edit and post one chapter a week (unless I get impatient and post them more quickly). Hope you enjoy!

It was for the best, Benji told himself. In the crowded loneliness of the city he had found himself fixated on Mr. Thornton, on his steadiness, on his present attention. But that wasn’t what he’d come for.

He was here to find a job.

Not that he could conceive of how he and his mother were to manage such a thing. They had no credentials, no connexions (not any they were willing to draw on, not now), no training in any marketable profession beyond the one Mrs. Dunn had left behind. So their search amounted to little more than aimlessly wandering the city streets, scouring storefronts and newspapers for employment advertisements, and occasionally presenting themselves as candidates for jobs for which they were hopelessly under-qualified.

All the while, they tried not to look too closely at the loose flesh of the masses gathered outside the factories every day, desperate for any employment, no matter the cost.

Savings grew thin, and Mrs. Dunn developed a persistent cough.

* * *

Benji hadn’t so much as considered the possibility that Mr. Thornton might visit again. Even had they been inclined to invite him, he would hardly care to return after they'd made no secret of their judgement of him. But at precisely 1:00 pm the Sunday after Mr. Thornton’s damning revelation, there was a knock on the door. Benji looked up from his book with a spark of excitement before he could identify why, then sunk back with annoyance and shame at the realization that in their brief recurrences Mr. Thornton’s visits had already become ingrained in his habits as an anticipated event. Well, at least that reaction wasn’t likely to occur again, as this must be nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence—although he couldn’t fathom who else would visit them.

By the time Benji gathered himself his mother was already up and moving towards the door, casting him an odd, uncertain glance as she reached for the handle.

Then she opened the door, Mr. Thornton stepped inside, and the memory of one of the workers in Mr. Thornton’s cotton mill crashed to the forefront of Benji’s mind.

_He’s the first who hasn’t met Benji’s inquiries about their employer with terror, and either hunched closer to their work and remained silent or stuttered exaggerated praise, looking as if they fear they might be struck if they utter a word amis._

_Benji’s nearly given up when he encounters a man with eyes so empty and hollow that he has to fight the urge not to turn away. Even this man’s eyes spark with fear at Benji’s question—“What do you think of your employer, Mr. Thornton?”—but it fades away at once, as if he simply hasn’t the energy to sustain it._

_The man shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”_

_This is hardly what Benji had hoped for, but it’s something. “Is he kind to you, then?”_

_“He’s taken to visiting of late, never used to before. He’s nice enough to your face.”_

_“But … ?”_

_“What does it matter? We don’t want his smiles. He steals our lives and gives us just enough to stay on our feet so he can keep making use of us, just like the rest of them.”_

Benji rose and exited the room at once, but he wasn’t quite fast enough to miss the hopeful pleasure that sparked in Mr. Thornton’s eyes at the sight of him, then faded as he turned away.

For the life of him Benji couldn’t guess whether the visit had been instigated by Mr. Thornton or his mother, or why the other had agreed to it. He didn’t ask.

* * *

As Benji feared, these visits proved a regular occurrence, disrupting the one day of rest he and his mother allowed themselves each week.

The first few weeks he vacated the living room before Mr. Thornton's impeccably observed 1:00 pm entrance. But the murmur of their voices penetrated the thin wall far too easily, leaving him distracted and frustrated for the entirety of the visits. So at last Benji decided to change tacks, to stay and observe and see if he could not discover the cracks in Mr. Thornton’s facade, spot the hidden monster that would at least serve to make the man who sat in their living room consistent with the villain who abused his employees.

As the minutes crawled towards 1:00 and Benji stayed put, trying to disguise his anxious jittering, Mrs. Dunn cast curious glances in his direction. Then a knock rang out, and she raised a surprised eyebrow at him before going to open the door.

When Mr. Thornton saw him, his lips twitched in a small sad smile, but the hope didn’t spark in his eyes.

Still, after he had turned his attention to warmly greeting Mrs. Dunn, then looked back to find Benji still unmoved, his lips parted in surprise and he took a few quick strides in his direction, hand extended in greeting. Even when Benji merely extended his hand while remaining stock still and stone-faced—ignoring his mother’s glare in the hope that outright impoliteness might wring even a touch of pride-fueled anger from the man—Mr. Thornton gripped his hand warmly and greeted him with every appearance of gladness.

In spite of himself Benji felt the beginnings of an answering warmth rising within him, only for it to strike against a concrete wall as uncompromising as that of Mr. Thornton’s own factory:

_This woman’s eyes aren’t empty—they’re burning with anger. There’s fight in them yet, and if the only use she can find for that anger is to speak plainly in defiance of the likelihood of losing her work—losing her only means of attaining sustenance—than so be it._

_“Mr. Thornton, Mr. Dombey, what’s the difference?” She asks scornfully in response to Benji’s query. “Mr. All Of Them drive you until you drop, and when you do you’re out of a job, and out of a life too if you’re not lucky.”_

Benji pulls his hand abruptly away and utters no greeting.

Mr. Thornton’s smile falters at last, but even now there’s no hint of offense or anger.

Benji shakes his head vehemently. That’s it. No one is that obnoxiously saintly, even if they aren’t soul-sucking moguls. The man is a superb actor, and that’s all there is to it.

Benji stands and marches out of the room, making no response to the ever-so-slightly plaintive, “Good day, Mr. Dunn,” that is called after him.

* * *

For all his storming out, that event was not, in fact, ‘it’. Writing Mr. Thornton off as a good actor proved entirely unsatisfactory—why, after all, should he put so much effort into his impeccable act? Why with them? What could he stand to gain?—and the empty eyes and pleading voices echoing unceasingly in his mind drove him back into the sitting room the next week as relentlessly as they had driven him out of it the week before.

This time, upon finding that Benji hadn’t fled at once, Mr. Thornton forwent the handshake, instead pausing some strides away from where Benji sat and accompanying his inquiries about Benji’s health with an awkward wave.

Benji didn’t respond, and Mr. Thornton’s cheeks pinked slightly as he muttered, “Um, good to see you Mr. Dunn,” and sat down.

Throughout the visit Mr. Thornton cast repeated glances in Benji’s direction, having the audacity to look not only surprised but increasingly glad to find him unmoved with each glance. Occasionally he turned more fully towards Benji, clearly intent on addressing him, but at Benji’s stony demeanor whatever he’d considered saying always died on his lips. Mr. Thornton received his silent refusals to engage passively, but as the hour passed he seemed increasingly animated by a nervous energy that was entirely alien to his previous manner.

When at last he stood to go, Mr. Thornton turned towards Benji, hesitated, then strode quickly forward and extended a hand. After a moment Benji shook it, but he made scant effort to disguise his discomfort, and Mr. Thornton looked a little guilty.

“Will I see you next week, Mr. Dunn?” It was the first question he had ventured since his initial greeting.

“Perhaps.”

Mr. Thornton, nodded, hesitated, then said “goodbye” and turned quickly away, offering Mrs. Dunn a warm farewell at the doorway.

Mrs. Dunn closed the door, then sighed and leaned against it. “I understand why you don’t like the man, I really do, but couldn’t you be a little polite?”

_There is a child in the factory. She is staring unseeingly at a far corner of the vast concrete room, a soft smile on her face, and as even his stomach roils Benji is taking some meager comfort in the evidence that she has a pleasanter place to escape to in her mind, when she hears his approaching step and hunches quickly over her task, shooting frightened glances in his direction as if expecting some fearful consequence for a moment’s wandering._

“You know mother,” Benj answered, “I’m not sure that I could."

* * *

Benji’s presence persisted during Mr. Thornton’s upcoming visits; his silence did not.

It was anger that did it most frequently. Respect for his mother and some vestige of ingrained politeness towards guests kept him from outright accusation, but some words could no got unchallenged.

When, for example, Mr. Thronton answered Mrs. Dunn’s polite inquiries about his reading material thusly: “Well, I’ve recently discovered the essays of John Stuart Mill, and recommend them highly. He appears willing to take reasonable and empathetic stances that many—particularly men in the public eye—are too frightened or too selfish to support,” Benji could hardly be blamed for cutting in: “Reasonable and empathetic stances, eh? And I suppose ‘reasonable empathy' is the rule you live your life by?”

This being the first time Benji voluntarily addressed him since certain revelations, Mr. Thornton startled and turned towards Benji with undisguised surprise. But when he answered it was with every appearance of grave sincerity: “That is always my goal.”

“Fascinating. Now, setting aside the question of empathy for the moment, are you sure that cotton mills and similarly run factories are reasonable? Because I’ve been doing some research, and I have my doubts regarding the long-term sustainability of such models.”

Rather than taking offense as he was supposed to, their infuriating guest positively lit up. “Yes, I agree! Do you have any ideas for improvement? Or do you find the industrial model fundamentally flawed?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Benji answered sullenly.

“Well, if you have some thoughts later, perhaps you might share them?”

Benji only shrugged, and refused to be lured by the eagerness of Mr. Thornton’s questioning eyes into further conversation.

But for all that Mr. Thornton was a hypocrite for the ages, his questions had sparked a niggling idea. Wildly unqualified though he was, immune to anything but practicality and profit as he must assume Mr. Thornton to be, perhaps there was some good Benji could wrangle out of this acquaintance after all.

_“I feel like I’m dying.” This man’s eyes are pleading, as if, could he only grasp the right words to communicate his plight, Benji might whisk him away from this unbearable place. “I used to be an artisan, a weaver. I used to imagine new and lovely patterns and give them form and color, and the world was more beautiful because of me._

_“Now I feed the same white thread through the same deafening machine over, and over, and over, and over, making the same damn cloth over, and over, and over, and over, and my only goal is to make it to tomorrow and continue again, and his only is goal to become richer than he already is … it feels like dying, sir. It’s like being dead.”_

* * *

In addition the anger, there was another circumstance that could lure Benji into conversation—one more troubling on every level.

Mrs. Dunn’s cough.

It had begun two months into residency in Milton, and what they had initially dismissed as a light cold grew worse by the day.

As if Benji hadn’t enough reasons to despise the smoking factories.

They had visited doctors, of course, all of whom seemed unconcerned with her condition provided that she rest (untenable), take a regime of medications (unaffordable), and a trip to the country (impossible).

Benji at least convinced her to stay home and try her hand at writing—she had considerable experience writing sermons, after all—to which she had initially objected on account of submitting to publications more-or-less at random being unsteady work unlikely to bring in a stable income, if any at all. She was proved correct, on the whole—the money that trickled in from her writing was scant, and by no means sufficient to keep them afloat. But there was relief nonetheless in its slowing the rate at which their savings diminished, and while Mrs. Dunn’s cough showed no signs of improving, it at least didn’t seem inclined worsen for the time being.

Benji was then left with nothing to do but double his efforts to find work and offer what small kindnesses he could.

The latter attempt was where Mr. Thornton came in.

The first time Mrs. Dunn had a proper coughing fit during one of his visits, Mr. Thornton had leaned forward anxiously, hand half-extended, then stopped himself and looked uncertainly towards Benji.

Benji understood Mr. Thornton’s glance to be asking why he hadn’t moved to help his mother, and in truth it was difficult not to. But he knew all too well that there was nothing he could offer by going to her but comfort, and she would get more of that by having attention removed from herself until she could recover.

So instead of standing, Benji grit his teeth and asked, “Were there any animals back on the farm of whom you were particularly fond, Mr. Thornton?"

Mr. Thornton’s eyes narrowed in thought, and darted quickly between Benji and Mrs. Dunn. Then he nodded sharply and, turning his full attention to Benji, answered, “Oh yes, many of them over the years. I remember in particular one chicken—born on the farm—with an injured wing. It pained him, and sometimes he would hide away with his hurt—drove me distracted with worry now and then—but really he was one of the kindest animals I’ve ever known …”

They talked while Mrs. Dunn’s cough subsided, then continued on until she chose to reinsert herself into the exchange, at which point Mr. Thornton transferred his attention back to her and continued to speak as if nothing had occurred, allowing Benji to slip quietly out of the conversation.

In all of the cough’s subsequent occurrences, Mr. Thornton entered smoothly in and out of conversation with Benji with no visible acknowledgement of the cause beyond a tension in his forehead that he couldn’t quite hide. Indeed, those were the only times he attempted to initiate conversation with Benji, although the the quickness of his inquires on those occasions gave Benji the disconcerting sensation that the man had a stock of questions he had been wishing to ask.

“Have you made any progress finding a job? Is there anything I can do to help, anything at all?” he asked once.

(“No,” and “No,” were Benji’s short answers, and Mr. Thornton took the hint and allowed the conversation to turn.)

Another time it was: “How did you use your time, in the village, when you weren’t helping others?”

(Benji hesitated over that one for a moment; but he had to fill the time with something, and it might as well be the truth. So he answered: “I like making things, solving problems. Nothing out of the ordinary; just your stereotypical child disassembling clocks to discover what makes them tick.” He really should have predicted what came next—his mother, having recovered herself, promptly reentered the conversation to inform Mr. Thornton that Benji had not only dissembled the clock, but reassembled it into perfect working order at the age of five, only to disassemble it again and improve it not many years later. When she began on stories of Benji’s innovations to improve farming, housework, etc., talking in such a way that one would think Benji had personally designed every blessed object that rolled or ticked in the village, Benji happily recalled that manners were not an object in the present company and retreated to his room.)

And again: “I see there’s a new book on the table. Are you reading it?”

(He was; in defiance of the insulting cultural insistence that the genre was only fit for women, and perhaps not even for them, Benji had discovered and dug deep into the relatively new sensation of the gothic horror novel. It was unlike anything he had read before, and while he might concede to the critics that the average installment in the genre wasn’t outstanding for its sophistication, he was increasingly convinced that such critiques were entirely missing their cultural and literary significance, not to mention their … well. Suffice to say that once he got going on that particular topic, he was disturbed to find himself actively disappointed when his mother reentered the conversation and, per established patterns, he felt himself obliged to retreat into silence.)

Engaging in these conversations for Mrs. Dunn’s benefit is the worst thing Mr. Thornton has done yet, really, because of all his kindnesses, this was the first for which Benji could not help but feel grateful.

_“Happened three months ago,” the woman says, briefly raising a hand that is short a pinky into his view without pausing in her work. “I came back to work next day.” Benji clasps his hands protectively behind him. “Look round and you’ll see all sorts of missing digits. No missing thumbs or hands, mind you. Being clumsy enough to chop one of them off is a fireable offense.”_

_She turns then to catch his reaction, and her gesture at a grin is a grotesque baring of teeth._

* * *

Mrs. Dunn’s cough worsened, and Benji began standing with the crowds clamoring for jobs at the factories.


	3. Chapter 3

It was one of Mr. Thornton’s shining days—the sort that made Benji almost believe his wildest theory that all the man’s kindnesses were motivated by a perverse delight in infuriating him. Still, it appeared likely to end just as any other visit, with Mr. Thornton offering an uncertain, almost shy farewell to Benji, and a warm and grateful one to Mrs. Dunn as she led him to the door. This leave-taking was interrupted, however, when Mrs. Dunn was struck with her most severe fit of coughing since she’d taken to writing at home.

Mr. Thornton’s hand was nearly on her shoulder before he halted himself, lips pressed tight with restraint. Then, with an abruptness that seemed to surprise even himself, he turned to Benji and said, “Would you step outside with me? I wish to ask you a favor.”

Mrs. Dunn looked somewhat alarmed at this and tried to speak, only to choke on the words and cough harder. 

Glaring at the man, Benji said through gritted teeth, “Mother and I are trying a new fish recipe for dinner tonight. What are your evening plans, Mr. Thornton?”

For a moment Mr. Thornton looked as if he might object, then he nodded tightly, said, “Forgive me,” and stepped out the door. 

Benji rolled his eyes and hurried forward to his mother, whose cough was at last subsiding. “Don’t try to speak, but I’m going after him—yes, I know I don’t have to, but you know as well as I that the curiosity would drive me to distraction—don’t look so worried, I may abhor the man but he doesn’t mean us harm.”

Mrs. Dunn nodded tightly, and after pausing a moment longer to be sure the fit had passed, Benji darted outside.

For someone who wasn’t especially tall, Mr. Thornton proved a remarkably fast walker. Brief as his delay had been, Benji was scarcely in time to spot Mr. Thornton as he disappeared around a distant corner. With a groan, Benji broke into a run.

By the time he rounded the corner Mr. Thornton was still in sight, although Benji had gained less ground than he had hoped. Still, he was close enough that when he called out Mr. Thornton stopped and, having turned and spotted him, redirected his quick strides towards Benji.

“Mr. Dunn,” he said rapidly, “my apologies, I thought you did not wish to speak.”

“I don’t particularly, but I would prefer not to die of curiosity. And for future reference, I’d appreciate if you would refrain from topics troubling to my mother while she is struggling to breathe.”

“Right, yes, sorry, that was poor judgement on my part,” Mr. Thornton answered, all too predictably having the good grace to look abashed. “I had not gathered the resolve to speak until that moment, and I was afraid that if I waited it would pass.”

Benji took a step back. “I’m ecstatic to hear you find my Mother’s illness so motivating.”

Mr. Thornton’s jaw clenched tight, and for the first time in their acquaintance his voice was laced with frustration. “You misunderstand my intent. That is the entire trouble. You always misunderstand.”

Unable though he was to imagine why this, of all moments, should be the one in which Mr. Thornton finally broke, Benji was ecstatic. “Oh-hoh, are we finally doing insults?” 

Mr. Thornton vehemently shook his head, but whatever he might say his frustration was still manifest as he removed his hat and ran a hand roughly through his hair. 

Unfortunately, Benji observed, being slightly disheveled was a good look on him.

“And again!” Mr. Thornton exclaimed, but when he continued to speak he had regained control of his voice. “Forgive me, I meant no insult to your intelligence, which you have proven time and again. Indeed, your misunderstandings are only further evidence of that intelligence. Any logical assessment of me, of the things I say, would lead you to the wrong conclusions because—” Mr. Thornton paused, worried the rim of his hat, then finished in a rush, “because you are working with a faulty data-set.”

Benji gaped. All this time, trying to make sense of the man, he’d never thought—rather, he’d never let himself indulge a thought so certain to be founded on baseless hope—of course he must be cautious, he could hardly know in what way this alternate data-set might affect—

Long before Benji could consider how to respond, Mr. Thornton was speaking again.

“Ignore me. I am merely wandering. My emotions overtook me, but it won’t happen again.” Mr. Thornton’s eyes, typically so fixated on whomever he was speaking to, were averted, and his speech still came too quickly, out of his own pace. “I only wanted to ask you—perhaps it was underhand, but you seemed more likely to accept than your mother—is there anything money can buy that would help her?”

“Ah,” Benji answered.

“That’s why her coughing impelled me to speak,” Mr. Thornton added unnecessarily.

“Yes, thank you, I gathered,” Benji answered, too distracted to censor the instinctual politeness. Was that all Mr. Thornton had meant by the ‘faulty data-set’? Surely he couldn’t claim to have a similar detail tucked away to combat every so-called ‘misunderstanding’, and even if that were plausible, why should he never have presented them?

But that wasn’t the most pressing question just now, and the swelling relief that his mother would at last be taken care of was quickly rising to primacy. Gathering himself, he spoke again. 

“Thank you Mr. Thornton. I’m glad you spoke to me first. I don’t wish to go behind Mother’s back, but she is more likely to accept the offer if I present it to her and have already made up my mind.”

Mr. Thornton lit up at this response, answering, “Yes, yes that’s what I thought, and I’m very glad. Mrs. Dunn deserves every kindness, and I hoped that you, for her sake—still, it is good of you. I know it’s not easy to accept gifts from—from someone you hate.”

As he spoke the final words Mr. Thornton’s gaze dropped again, but Benji could picture the flicker of sorrow the man was trying to hide. Scarcely a Sunday went by without glimpses of it.

Picturing it now—indeed, drinking in every inflection and flickering expression—letting himself imagine for the first time in months that everything this man appeared to be might not be a scam, it was all Benji could do not to offer comfort, and to instead answer neutrally, “It would take a great deal more than wounded pride to keep me from helping my mother however possible. Although of course we will purchase whatever is necessary ourselves as soon as I find a job.”

“If you wish, then certainly,” Mr. Thornton assented.

“Right. Good. Well, I’ll talk to Mother first, and then—well, I don’t know where you live. Will you be at the factory in two hours or so?”

Mr. Thornton went rigid. “I—yes, I will, but you needn’t trouble. I can wait outside while you speak to Mrs. Dunn—or if you think you’re likely to talk for some time, I can can come back tonight—”

“Nonsense, you’re the one doing us a favor, and despite all evidence to the contrary I am capable of politeness to benefactors.” Benji permitted a little of the budding warmth inside slip into his tone and watched Mr. Thornton’s face closely, finding himself eager to catch another glimpse of light in his eyes.

Instead, Mr. Thornton looked horrified. “No—please, I do not mean to buy your friendship—I wouldn’t dream of it. I could not bear to continue my visits if I felt I’d forced you into pretending affection. God knows I’ve been selfish enough to persist in coming at all.”

“Alright then,” Benji answered with surprise, raising his hands placatingly, “I promise to be unfailingly cruel to you for as long as I fancy. And don’t worry about my coming over, I’ve been there before anyhow.”

Mr. Thornton, who had looked halfway to being comforted before, went a definite shade paler at this final declaration. “When?” he asked.

Benji gave up on trying to calm this incomprehensible man’s anxiety. “The day I found out that you own it. Now I’d best be getting back. Thank you—sincerely, thank you—and my apologies for all the emotional crises I caused you this conversation. They were, for once, unintentional.”

“It is my pleasure Mr. Dunn, and you have nothing to—”

“Nothing to apologize for? I should have known you would say that. I cannot believe I’m saying this to someone who seems to make a living off exploitation, but sometimes I think your self-preservation instincts are too underdeveloped for your own good.”

Mr. Thornton only smiled wanly and said, “Goodbye for now, Mr. Dunn.”

Feeling for the first time in months a twinge of regret at parting, Benji smiled in return, offering a small wave as he turned away. “Goodbye Mr. Thornton.”

* * *

Bursting through the door, Benji barely caught a glimpse of Mrs. Dunn’s anxious expression before it was swamped by surprise as he caught her up in an eagerhug. 

“Excellent news, Mother! Mr. Thornton will pay for your medicine—now don’t object, if you insist on the pageantry we can argue about it later and you can air your scruples until I get desperate enough to cry about how you’ll die and I’ll be left alone in this cold, lonely world, then you’ll accept. But first I have to tell you the other news!”

Mrs. Dunn, being a human person and not the sentient punching-bag Mr. Thornton so convincingly imitated, looked annoyed but too intrigued to actually protest. Settling for a sigh, she gestured for Benji to continue.

“I believe I’ve cracked it.”

“Cracked what, precisely?”

“Mr. Thornton.”

“… Oh?”

Benji leaned in and elaborated with a conspiratorial whisper,“ _I think he’s a spy._ ”

“Huh.”

“Don’t worry Mother,” Benji chuckled at her expression. “My sanity is intact. He’s _probably_ not a spy, but I’d swear to it that there’s something we don’t know about him, something that explains everything!”

“Benji. Did he tell you that?”

“Not in so many words, but there’s clearly some dolorous secret he feels he must hide for eternity no matter the pain it brings him—he _would_ be the type, wouldn’t he … Mother?”

Mrs. Dunn looked as if she’d been struck, and Benji stuttered to a halt, reviewing his words and trying to identify what he’d said to incite such a reaction.

“Benji. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“You’re seeing what you want to see, love.

“But—wait a moment, I haven’t told you everything, he—”

“ _Benji_. You remember what happened last time you thought he might secretly be a saint? I don’t think you smiled for a week after you stepped in that factory.

“I do recall, it’s just the most haunting memory of my life thus far, thanks, but _listen—_ ”

“No, you listen! Mr. Thornton is a deeply flawed man who happens to be a polite conversationalist. That is _all_.”

Benji stepped back. He was unused to being told to doubt his perceptions, to stop communicating, by his mother. He didn’t entirely know how to respond.

Anger rose to fill the emptiness. “Right, because you’re such an infallible judge of character.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the one who brought him here! I was ready to never see the man again the second I stepped into his factory, but _you_ let him back. Weekly! So what, you get to make him a regular part of our lives without a word of warning, but I’m not even allowed to form an _opinion_ of him?”

The fight visibly drained from Mrs. Dunn as he spoke, and she sank to a seat on the couch.

“I’m sorry love."

Benji sighed and tried to manage himself, but an accusatory edge still tainted his voice. “Why did you let him come, Mother?”

Mrs. Dunn shrugged weakly. “He asked, and he seemed lonely.”

“Yeah, well I bet the workers who, according to your unshakeable conviction, whose time and energy he cannibalizes are pretty damn lonely too.”

“Yes, well.” Mrs. Dunn seemed unable to meet Benji’s eyes—a near unprecedented occurrence. “If I’m honest that’s part of the reason I kept seeing him. It’s arrogant, I suppose, but he seems to have such kindness and empathy, I thought—I thought maybe I could help him extend it to his workers. Change him.”

Benji frowned, a theory beginning to form and edge out the anger. Slowly, he moved to join Mrs. Dunn on the couch.

“Any luck?”

“None at all. I can’t even manage to talk to him about it—I’ve never met anyone so expert at changing the subject.” 

“Likewise … then have you at least managed to glimpse that dark heart he’s hiding under 20 layers of niceties? Is that why you’re so certain there’s nothing more to him?” 

“No,” Mrs. Dun exclaimed, distress straining her voice. “Not so much as a glimmer! I can’t understand it. I’m a professional at walking alongside sinners, and if there is _anything_ I believe down to my soul it’s that what we do is born from who we are. And I know how to identify root causes—the pain or the anger or the core beliefs that motivate harmful action—I’m good at that, Benji! It’s the only thing I’m good at, apparently. Or I was. But how am I supposed to reform him—help the people whose lives he is _stealing_ away—if I can’t find the part of him that needs reforming?”

Benji sighed, moving closer and placing a gentle arm around her shoulders in a gesture of reconciliation. 

“So that’s it. Look, I know you’ve had a dire shortage of means to exercise your abilities of late. But just because you don’t have a congregation to guide here, it doesn’t undo all the good you’ve done. And we’ll find a new way for you, for both us, to be of use.”

Mrs. Dunn shook her head. “Sometimes … sometimes I think I shouldn’t have brought you away from the village. We would have been living a lie, but at least I was doing some good. At least you weren’t alone.”

“No,” Benji says firmly. “Milton hasn’t exactly been a paradise, I grant you. But I was miserable enough carrying around my secret heresy, knowing everyone I spoke to would judge or ‘pray for me’ if they knew. And you? Spending every day enforcing a system you no longer believed in? It would have killed you.”

Mrs. Dunn was silent, but after a few moments she leaned her head against Benji’s shoulder. 

“What I still don’t understand,” Benji continued after a pause, “is why you were upset with me. If there’s a hidden reason for his behavior, wouldn’t that answer your questions? You couldn’t find the root of his actions because—because you’re working with the wrong data-set.” Benji felt his excitement building again. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? You said it yourself, you’re good at figuring people out! This would explain—”

“Benji, please.”

There was no anger in her voice this time, but Benji felt his frustration rear once more. “Fine, I’ll stop talking about it, but _why_?”

“Because it’s my fault.”

“Sorry?”

“I should not have invited him back. If I did I certainly should have consulted you first. I had convinced myself that any feelings you had for him died when you learned what he does.”

“This isn’t about that, Mother.”

“Isn’t it?” She looked him in the eye, then.

Benji didn’t answer. 

“I put my need to feel useful over protecting you. And when you came in here just now, so happy, and I saw my mistake, I tried to make it go away. I’ve been terribly selfish.”

Benji withdrew his arm from around Mrs. Dunn’s shoulders, not out of annoyance, but so that he could clasp his hands together tightly. “I’ve begun applying for factory work.”

Mrs. Dunn went rigid. “You cannot.”

“What choice do I have? Generous though Mr. Thornton’s offer is, the medicine won’t be of much use if we cannot purchase food.”

“Benji, the people you spoke to—you _cannot_. Perhaps I can—” As if to undercut her objection, Mrs. Dunn was cut off by a fit of coughing. 

“Clearly that’s not an option right now. And I’m not resigning myself to a life of drudgery just yet. You’re out here, and with Mr. Thornton’s help you’ll be healing up shortly. If I do land in one of those hellholes, you’ll come up with something clever to get me out.”

Mrs. Dunn in no measure relaxed, and her breathing was unnervingly shallow.

“Look, my point is, maybe you’re right,” Benji said, hoping he had not misstepped in confessinghis morning activities. “Maybe I’m desperate, and irrational. I _am_ glad we left our old home, but I’d cheerfully surrender a digit or two to those monstrous assembly lines for any god damned crumbs that make this place worth surviving. What I mean to say is, even straws look worth grasping at this point.”

At last Mrs. Dunn drew in and released a proper breath, though it shuddered in both directions. “I am equally aware of our circumstance, and I should have known—should not have pretended—forgive me.” She closed her eyes tight, then continued. “You have courage, and I love you, and I trust you to know and act as is best.”

“Is that permission to pursue my conspiracy about Mr. Thornton?”

Mrs. Dunn smiled at him, albeit thinly. “You hardly need my permission anymore, but you have my support, in full. And we can skip the argument about the medications. I’ll accept them.”

“Thank you mother, you’re the best there is.” Benji pulled Mrs. Dunn into a quick, tight hug, and planted a kiss on her head. “And let up on blaming yourself, yeah? Not even you can be a saint _every_ day.” 

Benji rose, detoured to his and Mrs. Dunn’s rooms to gather an armful of papers, then made for the front door.

As he grasped the handle, Mrs. Dunn’s voice arrested him: “How do you mean to do it? If he has a secret he is clearly determined to keep it.”

Benji smiled slightly and hefted his papers. “That’s the clever bit, Mother. I’m going to apply for a job.”

Mrs. Dunn reflected his smile every so faintly, then bit uncertainly at her lower lip before adding quietly: “He asks about you, when you don’t come. He asks how you are, every time.”

Benji’s heart quickened, but he endeavored to laugh it off. “Probably wants to make sure I haven’t become emotionally unstable enough to murder him yet.” 

“He seems sincere.” 

“He always seems sincere as death.” 

“I know.”

Turning, Benji opened the door and stepped out.


End file.
